


cry havoc

by you_aint_my_dad



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: 71st Hunger Games, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Canon-Typical Violence, District 7, Gen, Mentor & Tribute (Non-Romantic) Relationships, Multi-POV, Rating May Change, original character deaths
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2020-10-20 12:07:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20675132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/you_aint_my_dad/pseuds/you_aint_my_dad
Summary: "The 71st Annual Hunger Games. Landmark year, the first game of Head Gamemaker Seneca Crane. Won by Johanna Mason, District 7, scoring a 5 with an initial unprecedented 60-1 odds to win, claiming the title of victor with four kills and three injuries."- Gimmick's Index of the Annual Hunger Games, Chapter 71.





	1. prologue

**prologue**

When Johanna Mason was above reaping age, big enough to carry a set of tools and a backpack full of provisions, she had every other tough young thing with the grit and the size all took a freight train after school one afternoon to the northern lumber camps and submitted themselves for winter logging employment.

It was a right of passage, a District 7 ageing ritual, and as the stifling summer months come to a chill close and school tapered off in the face of production quotas, Johanna ended up with a job with one of the sawing crews.

None of it was easy work, but in Seven, one made do ― only Johanna did better than that.

She did _better_.

Her payment for her first month came in a sealed yellowed envelope at the end of December. Normally it took half a year, for an apprentice to become a full-time logger, but Johanna convinced the foreman and his siderod that she wasn't no short staker in just over twenty days. They gave her the full-time wage advance, told her to keep up the solid work and sent her home that evening with a slap on the back and a reminder to turn up on time tomorrow. It was the most money she'd ever had in her whole life.

And the first thing she did with it was to go to the barber and get all of her hair cut off.

Johanna Mason's hair was long, shiny, strong and liked to curl when it got wet. According to her mother, it was her one saving grace. Everything else was subject to sighs and titters, brisk worn hands batting at her and stiff, formal words chiding her. Her face was too sharp, her expressions to sullen, she worked too hard and her shoulders were too wide, her hands too rough, her attitude too brusque and her posture too arrogant, but her hair was just right if only she would put some effort into it.

And Johanna got it cut to barely a half an inch off her scalp.

The second thing she did was make her mother cry.

If Johanna had been a boy, of course, this would have never become an issue, but she is also the eldest, and in Seven, if you were from the towns, there were expectations when it came to family. If her oldest brother wasn't five years her junior Johanna doubted that she would have ever gotten her mother's blessing to board the freighter to begin with.

Her father rolled his eyes when he finally saw the apparent devastation. But he was a working man, too, and therefore tired and overworked with no spare time for dramatics.

_It's just a phase_, her father informed his suffering wife when she'd burst into tears the moment Johanna walked through the door. _And, Snow's balls_, he declared ―_ we need the added income!_

That's all he will hear on the matter, in terms of employment, but unfortunately for Johanna her list of sins was longer than just her newfound occupation. Her mother sat on her bed that night, desperately clasping her daughter's reluctant hand, and she begged Johanna to never do anything like that again.

_I can overlook a lot of things,_ she said, not crying but close, _but for the love of the Capitol, my girl, at least pretend to care about your appearance._

Her mother knew that she did it on purpose. Just as much as Johanna knew that her mother had wanted a pretty little thing in dresses. She wanted a nice little girl who'd sit on the grass with a doll, who'd socialise nicely and properly until she find work in the storefronts and eventually find a proper husband. Like the little girls who used to come over before Johanna decided to introduce one girl to her father's axe and other bladed work tools, from where it was made clear that her mother had a hatchet-wielding muttation and not the fair gentle daughter she'd wanted.

Johanna was not entirely sure that her mother had quite forgiven her, come to think of it. She wasn't friendly, well-mannered, or otherwise engaging; the last time she'd willingly played with another girl from the good end of town, she'd pushed the shrieking child over into a mud pile, skirts and all. Ever since then, the Mason's daughter had been a social disappointment.

She did not blame her mother for her melodramatics. Not really. It was easy to slip into that frame of thinking, when your life was dull and constrained between the walls of your home and the attitudes of other housewives, but Johanna did not care, either. She paid a small chunk of her wages to the barber in her camp to slash it off, and by the end of it, Johanna came out looking like the boys in her sawing crew. She threw over ten inches of "just right" straight into the bin without a single care in the world. It was just hair.

If Johanna wasn't at risk of drawing disappointment from her father, she would demand that her mother give up on her. If she was such a failure then why bother at all?

Instead, Johanna merely brushed her off, and the next few days consisted mostly of strained silences and pointed looks at home, and at work, occasional jokes and gibes until the foreman told them to shut it up.

"Short hair, girl or no," Elah barked at his raggedy group of apprentices and workmen with a snarl. "She still beats your sorry ass on the quotas. So shut your can and get to work."

Adamus, who was smart enough to probably end up in administration when he left school, merely raised both his eyebrows at her over the rims of his glasses.

"I've got some hair product if you'll be needing it, when it grows out." He said, and she bared her teeth at him until he blanched. "No, seriously. It brings out your jawline. You look killer, Mason."

It's not much, it's barely anything, but she worked herself hard afterward and felt a little less patronised when he slapped her on the back with a _Job well done, Jo._

She doesn't touch it for the longest time. Her hair is too short to do anything with it anyway, and her mother would no sooner have her committed to the crazy house if she started storing men's grooming products in the bathroom so soon after _the incident_. But as the months drag on, as she got older, when fourteen becomes seventeen and her mother became less opposed to keeping it at a few inches, she awoke one morning with the decision to experiment.

It's for men and the tin is half rusted and it smelled like something her father would use as an aftershave, felt like wood glue, but it worked. With the locks away from her forehead and eyes, the sharp lines of her face were even more prominent. As an added bonus, there was no hiding the definition she was gaining in her neck and shoulders.

For the first time in a while, Johanna liked the way she looked.

Come Reaping time, of course, her mother had come up with a solution. It was the only other time aside from their respective birthdays that her mother insisted she makes an effort, and the dresses that find her way into her bedroom closet stifling and long, intended to deceive and hide every single thing Johanna had grown to be proud of over the past few years.

She put up with it because she couldn't be bothered fighting, even though it made her blood burn in her veins and scowl even more than usual. Johanna put up with it because it was the Reaping and she did love her mother, a little, in her way.

She put up with it because if all went well, she'll be back at work the day after, wearing two-decade-year-old logging clothing that used to belong to her father when he was a boy. She'll be back on the plantation delogging firs or seeding new growth, cold bite or summer shine, and there was nothing her mother could do about it.

"It's just a phase," her mother repeated the mantra, five, six times that very day, as if saying it will make it true. "You'll see, love. It's just a phase."

.

When Johanna Mason is seventeen-years-old she's reaped into the 71st Hunger Games.

The first thing she did when she got aboard the tribute train was to spend twenty minutes looking at herself in the mirror, stricken with shock and swimming in a sea of total disbelief.

The second thing she did - for the third time that day - was to burst into a fit of tears.

Only this time, they're not the senseless, terrified kind that had slipped free on the long, silent vigil on the train platform. These ones are angry and loud, furious large droplets that stemmed from sheer, self-absorbed outrage.

Over thousand people between the ages of twelve to eighteen, roughly half of those are female and Johanna, out of all of them, who had only taken tesserae twice in her entire life, was the one to get chosen. She did not know the math off the top of her head, but she damn well knew that it was unlikely. What, over four thousand girls and the pre-Reaping dictated roughly that the higher percentage of slips were all those who took it the most? Johanna had sixteen slips in there. _Sixteen_. It didn't seem fair.

She had to laugh at herself for her naivety. _Fair?_ Of course, none of it was fair. Nothing about anything had ever possessed the decency to be fucking _fair_.

Instinct had her beating on the long, shiny bathroom mirror that spans one wall. It did not smash or crack under her onslaught, which she should have expected all things considered, but it only made her all the more furious.

Johanna was truly angry at herself, of course. It was easy to be angry at the Capitol ― they deserved it, but it was nothing they could control. _Johanna_, though.

She was very much aware that she messed up at the Reaping. All the kids their age knew the basic tenets of survival when it came to the Games: to never look anywhere but forward, to never as so much as glance at the person who gets Reaped, and if it's you, so help you, never fight back, never cause a scene and never, ever cry openly.

Johanna sure as Snow failed at the latter two. She knew better, so much better, and was normally hard and unflinching in her hot-and-cold temperament, so what happened? She had been too stunned thought the Reaping ceremony to talk, but it did not stop the tears. Nor did it stop them on the train platform.

She wasn't the only one. Her parents had been as much of a mess outwardly as she had been internally, and it was hard to be stoic and rational when your mother was practically planning your funeral right before your very eyes.

Three minutes was not enough for her mother to get out everything she wanted to say, but the gist of it was pity, pity of the deepest sort. She was beside herself, where Johanna was numb and horrified, and there were are tears upon tears, warbling words that she couldn't make out, even if she instinctively knew the meaning. Her two youngest brothers had sobbed uncontrollably themselves.

Johanna, in turn, had given them promises she knew they wanted to hear, though she recognised might fall through. But hell, she'll hardly the first tribute to do so.

Twenty-four kids a year. How many of them promised exactly the same thing?

Her father's visit was just as stifling. He held Johanna for at least a minute while muttering endless apologies. Johanna meanwhile reminded him it's not his fault ― how was it? She's never even taken tesserae. Work fed them just well enough that she need not to. They came from a decent, middle-class area of Seven; not rich enough to work in administration or in the stores, but they whern't in the logging camps or stifling in poverty, either.

Her eldest brother, Oliver, just turned twelve, told her that he'll pick up the slack. He'll take it if they need him to.

"You damn bloody well not," Johanna hissed back, pointed a finger in his face and while Oliver set his jaw, he dared not argue. He knew better and she'd thumped him for less.

Her father had sighed and told her not to worry, to just look after herself. They'll be watching. His gift to her is his wristwatch. Old steel and cracked leather, warped from having to fit against his wristbone. Johanna took it with as much gratitude as she could muster and put it on when they left.

In the end, the visits had left her feeling an awkward mix of both unsatisfaction and hopelessness, and while she knew better than to even advertise the thought, she regretted them coming at all. She didn't cry then, though.

No, it's Adamus, who had managed to pry himself away from that insanely overbearing mother of his - a trait they had shared, and bonded over - who was the last to say his goodbyes, who caused Johanna to break.

"Get it done with and come home," he had said, bluntly as if it was that easy. "Can't leave me to deal with Elah and Paul alone now, can you?"

Hearing him say that caused Johanna to cry the second time that day. No pity, no sympathy, just the knowing understanding that Johanna would do just that, or die trying. He knew her, Capitol damn him, and she hated him for it. Hated that it got to her.

Back on the train, someone knocked on her door, but Johanna did not answer nor open it up from the inside. She did not know who it was and did not care.

She wanted to be alone. They could give her that, couldn't they? They'd already taken everything else.

And they'd leave her alone eventually. Her district partner was overbearing but even he'd given up temporarily after his attempts fell flat. A slightly older boy Johanna did not recognise, from another part of Seven. He was tall and well-muscled, with an easy grin and an apparent inability to take anything seriously. His name was Linden.

Johanna, who had a well-honed set of instincts, mistrusted him at first sight.

Their escort, however, Tacitus, the standard breed of Capitolist lunatic who flicked purple glitter everywhere whenever he so much as flinched, was smitten with Linden the second he showed his pleasant, angled face. Johanna, she realised rather quickly, might as well as not have existed. In the face of Linden, her escort was utterly distracted.

Neither of them called for her when she vanished, and Johanna elected to spend the first hour of the train ride furiously seething in her own company. Either to keep her sanity, or out of spite, she did not know. Probably both.

She ran both of her hands through her hair and marvelled at the way her mother's bows and pins struggled to keep the curls in place. In a fit of renewed anger, she yanked out each individual accessory until her scalp was smarting and the sink was filled with prissy fake-silver pins and white, little bows.

Johanna turned on the sink after a moment, wrenching out the filter and watching as they all go tumbling down the drain with a clatter.

It is a strange, cleansing sort of feeling, seeing them tip into the dark abyss. From there, she gathered up water between her cupped palms and threw it over her face, running her wet hands through her short, free hair.

The change is grounding. Like this, freed from that stupid silly cardigan her mother insisted she wear, Johanna can again see the line of her shoulders. Even under this horrid dress, she could feel the way her muscles coil when she shifted. She was always a bulky kid growing up, built like her father as opposed to her thin mother, but three years of work, three years of climbing and delimbing firs, had built her up in the only way hard work can.

She shucked off the dress and threw it into a rejected corner. Then, stood in her underwear, she made a proper effort on her hair with water again (despite the finery, Johanna noticed, the bathroom and bedroom are shockingly absent of anything useful in that regard) sweeping the growing-in curls and dark waves away until her face is clear and bare.

Johanna snarled at herself in the mirror, picking out the slight sliver of scar tissue, the dark mark under her jaw left by the shape of Adamus' mouth and the bright, blazing hatred in her eyes and-

_There_. She thought, finding herself, her old self. _That's much better._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and this is a thing!
> 
> originally posted on fanfiction.net, this project here of mine is my attempts to explore Johanna Mason during her games, the immediate aftermath and the years before the 74th Hunger Games. It is a prequel, of sorts, to a wider HG project that is widely, intensely AU. Though this specific fic will be largely canon-compliant. 
> 
> thank you all for reading!


	2. train

**train.**

The uncomfortable fact about their district is that they could be Career if they wanted it.

They wouldn't, of course, never would - and nobody would ever be as stupid to mention so openly. The Capitol bit in a bit too hard for it to ever be right in their eyes, and they weren't and never would be Two or One or Four, but they were well of enough to make it count. Their tributes, each year, if they were old enough, from the right area, usually made good odds.

And for their indifference to the system and their above-average tributes, while the Capitol did not favour them, it did approve.

District 7 was on par with Four on the official scoreboard now, give or take a few miscellaneous areas. The only difference was that they did it without any training, making up for what they lack in organised 'sports centres' with gruelling work and harsh conditions but enough economical stability to survive. In their combined history, Seven has managed to scrape out a grand total of thirteen victors.

Most of them are dead, now. Three are left. Two of them were aboard with the tributes and they filtered in before dinner, dressed down from their suits with the informal company.

Twin killers, overgrown and older from their Arena days but forever immortalised as teenagers. It is a weird juxtaposition that sat awkward and disorientating in Johanna's mind, for she spent her childhood being taught about these specific Victors; a once-a-year school tour of the games museum, recaps on TV during their Appreciation Classes and endless Hunger Games broadcasting.

To see them in the flesh was almost disappointing.

Blight is the youngest of the two, ten years out and bigger now than he had been all those years ago, standing nearly eight inches taller than Johanna and almost twice as thickset. He was their reigning champion, even after a decade, and the only one of them - aside from one or two Victors long dead - who had killed multiple Career tributes in one-on-one combat. No-nonsense, with little overmuch to say, he'd been their designated district icon and represenative for as long as Johanna coud recall.

Hell, as a child, Johanna had pretended to _be _ him, trouncing around her backyard and the scrubby neighbouring woodland with a stick that she pretended was an felling axe. For as far district pride went, nearly slicing a fellow eighteen-year-old in half with an axe was about as Seven as one could get.

He paid for it with a mace to the head that had left him a little slower upstairs. Nobody was supposed to talk about it, of course, but everyone knew.

Blight's original mentor, Dara, stood beside him. Johanna was less familiar with him. Victor the 38th and older than her father. Less stern, by the look of him, too. He was balding, bearded much like every other adult male Johanna knew, and round.

"Let's take a look at you, then." The eldest of them all ordered with an audible sigh, ignoring their escort and his endless prattling. He then gave Blight a significant, wary sort of look that Johanna couldn't understand and didn't care to. "How old are you both?"

Linden, of course, is the first to speak. "I'm eighteen," he proudly declared. "Nearly nineteen."

"And you, my darling?" He was talking to Johanna.

"Seventeen," Johanna muttered to the floor, hating everything about it, about them. She had just turned seventeen.

Despite the fact that he was hurtling down to his own demise at over two hundred miles per hour, Linden was an enthusiastic participant, as far as things went. He answered all of Dara's questions happily, recalling memories of winning school marathons and being the tallest boy in his class. Johanna, by comparison, did not advertise much. She folded her arms and chewed at her lips and shrugged when Dara questioned her upbringing.

Tacitus, who probably thought he was being helpful, commented on Johanna's _mysterious quiet nature _ in what seemed like a last-ditch effort to find something worth working with, but his attempts were ruined when Linden laughed, as if it is a joke.

Humiliated, Johanna made to turn around and leave the compartment entirely, but was cut short before she could move.

"I'll take the girl," Blight spoke up, suddenly and without preamble.

Dara shot him a glance, as if he wasn't expecting Blight to say anything at all.

"Are you... sure?" The question was hesitant but not exactly sincere. Who would be, after all, when they had such a splendid specimen as her district partner as an option?

Blight's jaw twitched and Johanna scowled. Dara flipped both of his hands up in surrender.

"Fine then." He smiled, easy, calm. "That's fine. Linden, that okay?"

As the two began to talk it over, Johanna tilted her head up to look at Blight. He wasn't much; never really was. Closed-off and bored-looking, too big and too tall.

When he finally realised that she was looking at him, he glanced back at her and shrugged.

.

Seven's Reaping ceremony was broadcast earlier than those Districts on the east coast by virtue of being closer to the Capitol, but their route would take just as long as the others. Less than a day, if that. The first thing on Tacitus' agenda was _lunch_, which Johanna assumed was the Capitol's version of _dinner _and he shepherded both of the tributes over into another car, where an eight-person table is surrounded by delicate glass finery and a wide, clear window.

Johanna and Linden were given one side of the table, separated by the middle chair, while the victors sat on each end. Tacitus, of course, had one full side to himself, where he could see everyone.

For some reason that Johanna assumes is sheer opulence, lunch came in three separate dishes, which was more then enough meals to stretch them the full day back home. The first thing to arrive was some kind of fish that Tacitus immediately introduced as a tartare - a word Johanna had never heard of in her life - and it was accomplished with a salad-something-pancetta, with chunks of apple and goat cheese.

Sat next to her at her left elbow, Blight completely ignored everything on his plate save for adjusting its position and flipping over a few choice objects. The only thing he entertained was some Capitol version of coffee that was more alcohol than actual beans.

"Easy there," Dara laughed at the tributes as they stuffed themselves. "By all means, it's a good thing to work on putting weight before the Arena, but trust me on this, neither of you wants to end up on an upset stomach."

Johanna was just about to question the man's judgement when the second course came, and she saw his reasoning. Thinly sliced rib-eye with marbled potatoes and at least twelve different kinds of minuscule vegetable of various colour. The carrots themselves came in orange, purple and white. The dish was served with a small glasses of auburn liquor that was supposedly there to go on the meat, but before Johanna could so much as look at it, Blight leaned over and put it back on the server's tray.

"I've had liquor before," Johanna complained, more out of a need to save face than any actual need to drink.

"I'm sure you have." Blight did not even look at her. He did not look most people in the face, she'd noticed, instead he glanced down at her side plate. "Eat your vegetables."

Beside her, Linden snickered as he prodded at a stuffed leek. Johanna clenched her teeth. "What is that one of your secret mentor tactics?" She asked, snide. "Got any other strategies you want to share?"

"Oh, it's far too early to be talking about that," Tacitus replied gently. "Not over lunch. It would certainly spoil my appetite."

_And the gruesome slaughter of twenty-three kids live on television in high-resolution technicolour won't?_ Johanna wanted to ask, but Dara cleared his throat.

"He's right," he said. "Best to wait for the rest of the reaping coverage. Get eyes on the competition."

Blight looked at Dara for a few moments, then at his plate, before his eyes flicked back up to Johanna and then finally settled on his steak knife. He shrugged again as he picked it up deftly between his fingers, balancing the blade.

By the time the third and final course arrived, Johanna was starting to feel sick and had barely touched anything on her plate save for a few slices of meat and the choice vegetable. Tacitus insisted that they all have a slice of some dense cake-like desert each, but much like the rest of the affluent meal, Johanna could only pick at it. The others made polite conversation as the two tributes poked and prodded their desert.

Game data, they talked about. Statistics, ratios and percentages, spreads and starting bets. Blight grunted once when Tacitus asked about the starting pool and it was apparently a sufficient enough of an answer. Something about professionals, backers, spenders and favours ― weird Games jargon that Johanna struggled to make out and put to context, having made a life choice out of trying to ignore the Games and the Capitol as much as possible under the circumstances. The conversation eventually drew to an awkward lull when Tacitus suggested that their combined pool might be larger this year, eyes locked on Linden, which that earned him a stern look from Dara and a guilty glance in Johanna's direction.

Johanna ignored it and if Blight noticed, he did not care.

They were given coffee to wash desert down with, and a curious sip revealed that it likely wasn't the same alcohol content as her mentor's. It was better than the stuff they get at home, at any rate, so Johanna drank it down without complaint.

Ten minutes dragged on. Dara poured a sizeable amount of something strong from his flask into his coffee and complained about restraint. Tacitus laughed. Linden confessed that he did not drink it at home and was summarily informed that he probably wouldn't be able to in the Capitol, either, so he ought to get his fill now. They could eat whatever they wanted, but neither mentor wanted their Tributes overserved on caffeine before they went in. Wouldn't want to go through withdrawal in the arena.

Johanna had to shake her head at that. What did it matter, she thought, if they crashed when his death was an all but certainty?

_His death_ echoed back at her, and Johanna put her mug down at the realisation. His death, not hers, or theirs. _His_.

_Get it done with and come home._

Blight glanced at the smooth metallic wristwatch half-hidden under the cuff of his shirt and made a grunt-like noise in confirmation. He gave Dara a long, pointed look as he stood up from his chair and Linden copied the movement like a startled jack-in-the-box. It saved Johanna from the detailed self-introspection involving the murder of a handful of children to cement her survival.

As he bean to walk away, her mentor snapped the knife he was holding straight into the place mat with a mere flick of the wrist.

"Program's about to start." He said. "Let's go."

.

They all sat in another compartment, across three separate couches made of soft leather and a large television screen. Tacitus immediately demanded that they have more coffee and 'treats', but nobody was much in the way of hungry and he went ignored. Johanna sat on the side of the couch closest to the door, well away from everyone else and picked at the stitching hidden beneath the padding.

There is a forty-minute warm-up before the cross-Panem Reaping is aired, where Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith debate among themselves about the upcoming selection of Tributes and what they expect to see from this year's Games. By now, anyone reaped will have been collected and packaged up, speeding their way to the Capitol, from Two all the way to the furthest reaches of Ten.

After a discussion over potential Arena themes, Caesar turned the conversation around with a brief fanfare.

It was time to reveal this year's contestants.

It started off the same as every year. The same sixteen/eighteen split from One, two tall, sleek youths by the name of Aureole and Orville, volunteering for two other younger, less appealing children. District 2 is the same duo of eighteen-year-old athletes, a pair of hardened looking near-adults. Flint and Cybele are their names. The male, Flint, is even bigger and taller than Blight was. His biceps bigger than Johanna's head.

Three was a comparatively disappointing mix of a fourteen and seventeen-year-old. Four was a little more interesting, with a pair of sixteen-year-olds, brown-skinned and athletic and, apparently, cousins. Dylan and Amelia volunteer together.

Five and Six were less interesting; three older tributes over the age of fifteen and one younger one. Then there came District 7, and Johanna watched herself mutely climb the stage and stare off into space in a state of utter shock, tears streaming down her face. She all but ignored Tacitus as he jostled and congratulated her, stood awkwardly in that stupid dress her mother had forced her into that very morning.

Linden made a far better impression.

"_Well there's a strapping contender_," Templesmith said in the way of commentary.

"_Hm, yes, not entirely rare for District 7_." Was Flickerman's verdict, and without pause they moved on to District 8.

Johanna did not pay much attention after that, especially after Linden turned to grin at them all.

"Did you see that?" He demanded and let out an excited _whoop_, launching onto his feet in one bounding motion. "He called me a strapping contender!"

Dara and Tacitus appeased him as needed. Johanna meanwhile, utterly disgusted, made to stand, but she was cut off by Blight, who skimmed the flat of his thumb over the jumpsuit covering her shoulder.

"Let's have a talk," he said and Johanna was immediately under the impression that it was an order, not a request.

Her first instinct was to tell him to go fuck himself, but that would cause a scene and Johanna was really not in the mood for a lecture, especially from two famous child-murderer strangers and some freak in glitter who couldn't talk normally. So instead, she heaved herself up onto her feet and followed him back to her room, eyes drilling into the space between his shoulder blades, at the way the fabric stretched taught in that silly Capitol fashion where everyone had to wear clothes seemingly three times too small.

Blight did not say anything when he saw the discarded clothes thrown all over her room, but his lip did curl upward when he found her discarded Reaping dress. Johanna threw herself onto the end of her bed and stared him down, folding her arms.

"Well?"

"I'm just wondering if this is..." he paused, the fingers of his left hand suddenly rubbing together, mechanically, until he blinked and frowned. "What I ought to do with you." He grunted, fixed his gaze onto Johanna's and flicking his free, non-fretting hand behind over his shoulder. "Quite a show back there."

Johanna's mind recalled every single interview she suffered through every passing Appreciation Day, the way fancy Capitol programming wizardry couldn't quite cover up abrupt changes in speech and long, unexpected lapses and she very nearly smacked herself on the forehead.

_Of course,_ she had to get the stuttering broken one. She wondered if it is too late to demand that they swap.

"Well, it's not like I was prepared for any of this stupid shit!" Johanna snapped, annoyed anew, and he blinked at her, nonplussed.

"No one ever is," he replied. "Well. Aside from me, s'pose."

Blight volunteered for his Games, of course. She had to wonder if he was always mentally deranged or if the mace had only added to his troubles.

He shook his head at her, then, as if they were getting off track.

"Look. We need to-... Get to basics." Her mentor looked around the room for a moment, as if looking for a chair, but as there was nothing aside from the bed and dresser, he was stuck adjusting his posture into a more comfortable one, folding both arms over his chest. "This year is a Landmark Game, you know what that means?"

Johanna had not made a habit of watching the Games when she could help it. Work was widespread enough in Seven that one could get away with not watching mandatory broadcasts, as there couldn't possibly be a separate TV screen for every felling team. What she had to watch at home, in the square or at school she tuned out, and everything else, there was no point. Even her mother, who was usually a stickler for the particulars, did not begrudge her this.

"Last year..." she recalled, hazily and Blight nodded.

"70 wasn't just a decade, it was Ajax Bellwillow's last year as Head Gamemaker." Last year was District 4, Johanna recalled. A good arena by all accounts to those who care, but the Victor broke down almost immediately and survived only because she could swim where everyone else just straight up drowned. She was said to be insane now. "Landmark Games are important years that aren't necessarily Quells. This year we've got a new Head Gamemaker. We call 'em Transition Periods in the business."

"And what does any of this crap mean for me?" Johanna asked, impatient. Blight gave her a searching look.

"What this means is that there is gonna' be a big focus on the Arena. Gamemakers slated for promotion spend years preparing their debut. Crane is going to want to make an impression, and that means a lot of attention is going to be on him. This is in your favour right now, but you need to get into gear before the audience's attention eventually returns to you and the other tributes." He considered her for a moment, his jaw working over something in thought. His eyebrows began to pinch together. "There are a lot of older tributes this year."

He said it as if it was an understatement. Johanna snorted in bleak amusement.

"That's bad," She guessed and was rewarded with a stiff nod.

Almost all of the victors, save for hotshot Odair who won six years ago at fourteen, were older. Careers usually had all their lives to prepare for the Games. To a lesser extent, so did Seven, especially those who grew up in the camps working from thirteen, but that cut no ice unless you volunteered. All of District 7's previous Victors had all worked in the camps.

"That is indeed bad, to a certain extent." Blight seemed pleased, at least, that Johanna was actually responding to him. "Older kids are harder, stronger and faster, they're smarter, they don't necessarily die as quick. That changes the field. We'll get to your full strategy later, but right now, w-w... with-that-in-mind, you need to keep on with what you're doing. Keep your head down."

She froze.

_Wait_.

"Wait, you want me to do this?" Johanna very nearly died of a heart attack, her surprise was that sudden and potent. How in the name of the Capitol was she supposed to make _this_ into a tactic?

"Look." Blight said, tired and anticipating the meaning behind her question. "Sponsors as a whole are a reactive base. I'm not gonna go bore you with the specifics, not now, but it is very little in the pool for a tribute that breaks down."

Johanna was about to argue when he flipped a hand up, silencing her.

"You remember who won the 14th?"

That was over fifty years ago, but Johanna, like any other kid in a District that educated it's minors until eighteen, even if only for the summer, thought back and ran through that silly little rhyme they were taught. That disturbing, musical number that was updated yearly by some morbid maniac in the Capitol, the one that Johanna did not realise was a list of the Game's Victors and their 'techniques' until her mother complained and her father pulled her aside to explain.

Personally, she thought it was better than the ryhmes they did about the deceased, but hell.

"Lennox, the last weakling of District 2." She recalled.

"Well, you remember more than I do." Blight conceded. "What I do remember is that no one has ever really tried to play the weakling card since, and from what I can tell, no one else seems to remember."

Johanna cannot believe that he was actually considering this. That he wanted her to play along. Neither could she actually believe that she wouldn't have a choice, either. _Listen to your mentor_, was the tired old rule, passed on from Victor to Victor when they were asked for advice and tips for their future compatriots. _Do as your mentor says._

And for better for or for worse, Blight was Johanna's mentor now. Unless she went out on her own entirely he would be her lifeline.

She looked at him for a moment, this older, harder man wearing the general likeness of 61's Victor, auburn-haired and tall, built up but also fatter with privilege. Blight ― a nickname, single-word identifier, like Brutus and Lyme, Gloss and Cashmere. Johanna wondered if anyone aside from the Capitol actually knew his real one. District 7's only volunteer. Five kills and two injuries. The video clip of him cleaving Four in half was rated as sixteenth best winning kill to date.

And he wanted her to play the weakling.

Uncomfortably, she realised, that is exactly what she probably would have done otherwise. She set her jaw and scowled.

Blight sighed.

"I get it, it's... not ideal, but Sponsors are tight, and- you've already done the damage." Evidently aware that Johanna had been studying him, he ran a hand over his face. "You need to decide now, in any case. As soon as I leave this room I'm going to do one of two things ― I'm either going to ring up my regulars and bargain with them to try and get you on a decent starting pool, or I'm going to put my hands up and make a show of giving up."

"Linden..." Johanna had to ask. She raked her fingernails over her arms in irritation. Even the thought of Linden was enough to start making her crave a knife to hold.

"He's got a fairly decent start, I'd say. He's older and good looking, and he's Seven. That's usually enough."

"I don't like him."

She did not want to have an alliance with that boy. He reminded her of Paul from her work team, all smiles and grins and leering, accustomed to getting everything from looks and personality alone. If she had to deal with him more than she strictly had to at the barest minimum, Johanna was certain that she was going to end up trying to bury her fingernails in his throat.

Blight, much to her relief, did not look set to argue. If anything he looked relieved.

"That makes it easier, I guess, but keep it to yourself." He rolled his shoulders back, as if trying to push away the tension of their situation, and nodded. "I'll come up with some excuse for Dara. I'm sure it won't be that hard."

"You've been a mentor for ten years. Don't tell me you do this with every sucker who gets thrown in." Johanna challenged, with more bite than she really knew was necessary.

Dara was - _is_ \- Blight's mentor. Surely they would be working together, at least until the sixty seconds are up. Unless he was a sop who fell for every sad pathetic tribute he got, which in that case, he'd deserve it when she got cut open by some brute of a Two and her innards decorated the arena. Would serve him right.

Blight gave her that same unreadable look from before.

"Aside from it being my job?" He pointed to her arms. "Woodcutter's musculature. You tellin' me a kid at yer' age who's on a logging team is gonna' to burst into fits are the first sign of pressure? What did you do?"

Blight's accent had always been Seven, but the way he let drop the forced adjustments to his tone it hit home, and hard. Something like hope stirred in her chest before she stomped it away.

"Climb, mostly. Sometimes I buck as well. Winter fir harvesting."

"Linden in there?" Blight ticked his head in the direction of the other compartment. "He does hurdles."

Johanna grimaced despite herself, almost scandalised. _Oh_. She thought. How _pathetic_.

"I'm not joking." Blight continued, deadpan. "I'll put it to shock and whatever the hell happened with your family and friends, but from 'ere on out, it's all show. Ain't no Seven, out in those woods, got a bad shot and I'm pretty sure you're itching to prove you ain't no weakling, right?" Johanna glared and Blight glared back. "Get the upset out of your system today, take all the time you need, but the second we start pulling into the Capitol I want you on your game ― to play meek. Keep quiet, start listening and watching. The biggest thing you'll come up against at the moment is keeping that boy unaware of your true capabilities. Oh, and the stylists, who are probably gonna inch out every single killing instinct you have with their sheer-..."

He drifted off, smothering a wince.

"Just play nice, get that?"

Johanna wanted to burst into angry tears. Or start hitting him.

"And that's your brilliant plan?" She demanded. "Suck it up and deal with it?"

He sighed at her, as if she was too stupid to understand. "Yes."

"And what makes you think I'll do that?" She tried, because that was the lynch pin, wasn't it? That was her only angle here, her only leverage. "What makes you think I'll do as you say?"

"Because I said so," Blight drawled, brows lowered, looking like her father despite only really being ten years her senior and Johanna snarled at him in response. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go and, uh, make a show of giving up entirely."

Just as he turned to shut the door, Johanna flashed around to find the nearest big, breakable thing - some ugly as glass vase thing that looks like a curled up corpse from her angle - and launched it over her head after him.

It shattered on the edge of the door as it slammed shut.


	3. capitol

**capitol.**

Remake was a special kind of ordeal, and one Johanna had not been at all been prepared for.

In Seven, the best thing they could hope for was a hot bath, a bit of hair product, clothes that hadn't been worn to work and, perhaps, a shave ― and then, only usually for the boys who were convinced that it would grow back thicker if they did.

The last time Johanna was at the mercy of someone else when it came to her own appearance, it was with her mother the morning of the Reaping. Washboard rough hands ripping the brush through her hair with enough force to sting. Insistent muttering about etiquette and decorum and other stupid words Johanna had no need for when she was out delimbing hundred-foot firs in the ice-cold of winter.

Only, if her mother was bad, the Captiolists who make up her prep team were the downright worst.

There are three of them, plus her stylist herself. Two men and a woman, more of a girl, who somehow looked twelve years younger than Johanna did, who was not exactly old looking for her age. The urge to look on in abject horror is too strong for Johanna to bypass. The girl is truly grotesque.

Her name is Eglantine, and to Johanna, she looked like a little Capitol doll; eyes that had been altered somehow to look twice as big, almost luminously orange. Tiny little body, with a pale, soft face and curly hair coloured a deep, dark red.

The other two, men of various disfigurements and clearly the senior staff, took the lead.

Johanna quickly learned that the term _Treatment_ is a straight-up lie, and _Butchering _would be a term more apt to fit its description. As they removed every glaring imperfection that they can find, Johanna hissed and squirmed, biting back curses as her skin was chemically 'repaired' to remove her scars. Her hands were the worst. Bad enough that they had to bandage the soft new skin. It stung at first, but then the sensation turned into a persistent burning itch that made Johanna want to drag her palms down the roughest surface she could find. The endless series of creams and salves and gritty pastes were of no help.

She is thankful for only one thing. Eglantine, who was either mute or simply preferred silence, was the one to remove the mark left behind from Adamus' dirty little joke from the night before. The blemish disappeared, faded with a lingering stinging sensation, and it appeared that only them were ever aware of its existence. Although, Johanna did not look at her to confirm, embarrassed despite herself.

In the end, all she can do was try to recall the original experience, now that she had no aftermath to remember it by. It left her feeling funny in the middle.

And with that, she decided, she did not want to think of him, of them, especially not home. Not here. It felt wrong. _Weak_. Weak in this strange, dangerous place hiding behind fake-excitement and makeup. It was she who needed to be the dangerous one.

But, Johanna was supposed to play the weakling, wasn't she? And a weakling would cry. So she allowed a few drops to form, to remember Adamus and her little brothers and her father. The more she thought of specific memories; about how her brother wouldn't climb down a tree as a little kid unless she was under there first, waiting to catch him, or how her mother always saved the last of the syrup in the bottle for her to scoop out for herself, the more upset she could feel herself getting.

Johanna tried to master it ― to use the physical response to her advantage while also keeping a clear enough head to think things through, let her anger grow cold instead of hot, her emotions run quick but clear.

Sure enough, the tears soon ran down her cheeks, hot and salty, and the effect is instant. Percival and Roman were immediately upon her.

"Oh no, my dear!" Roman squeaked in the way of condolence and began dabbing her face and eyes with squeamish, hesitant gestures that suggested unfamiliarity with genuine distress. An odd thing, she thought, in his line of work. "We don't want _those_!"

"The pain won't last long, sweetling." Percival gave her leg a friendly pat. "We promise. You'll be gorgeous in no time at all!"

As if that was the reason she was crying. When they finally went back to work, Johanna redirected her attention toward the two male stylists, who preferred to talk about themselves and their experiences instead of extending any proper concern over Johanna's emotional well being. Percival was particularly rapturous. He met a man who was 'so totally into him' now that he's a stylist in the Hunger Games, you see. Roman wondered aloud if there were any Hunger Game couple-based activities for romantic getaways.

It was easy to lose herself in their chatter. Between that, and the clenching of her jaw, the pain was just about bearable.

For everything else, there was her mentor. Johanna did not like Blight much, if at all, but she was is thankful for his continued presence nonetheless.

His own prep team had done something to him while she was away. Hair shorter on the back and sides, the ends sharper and cleaner. His beard was shorter, too. He arrived in a suit that, again, looked too small to be comfortable with a lingering scowl on his face and a proverbial - or maybe not - axe to grind.

"I told you," Blight directed his ire at Roman, the ringleader of the multicoloured crazy brigade. "No surgical alterations. You clean her up and that's that."

"It wouldn't take much," Roman whined as if it's an actual concern of his, the fact that Johanna had more muscles than she has curves. Then she realised with a severe amount of disdain that it was likely the truth of it. "A small alteration would do wonders-"

"And it might go implicate my tribute in the Arena." Blight snapped back. He was surprisingly ferocious, and Johanna reminded herself again - as Percival hunched back in fear - that this man has _killed_ people before. Blight unclenched both hands, slowly and delibretly, before setting them on his hips. "The girl is compromised as is. Do what you need to do and nothing more. If you put one hand on my fucking tribute without my say so I'll break your sodding fingers."

That last bit hurt, even though Johanna suspected that it was part of the so-called plan. Roman hissed and skirted back in loathing, running his green jewelled fingertips across Johanna's arm in what would be a soothing manner if not for the fact that said hand was attached to someone who would no doubt be celebrating her death in a few days.

Blight noticed, but did not say anything or otherwise allude to the fact. Instead, he had orders for them; no alterations and no hair extensions. Base zero and not a millimetre over the threshold or - and this was the fun part - someone would be loosing legs.

According to her stylists, it was a complete and utter tragedy, just not because of the threat of physical harm.

"It's almost as if he doesn't want his tributes to flourish!" Percival looked close to tears, but either the situation wasn't as upsetting as he first imagined or he was worried about his makeup running because any traces of moisture are gone by the time Johanna can do a double-take. Roman gave him a consoling pat on the shoulder.

"_Now_," he said as he worked on standing Johanna up, pink, naked and prickling like a raw plucked chicken. "Now, we wouldn't want to say that," he gave Johanna a thin smile. "We all know how much effort the mentors put into their tributes. I can't imagine trying to pull off a display after last year!"

Last year, Johanna thought back as she tried to balance on her feet, sore soles and all. That girl, they must mean - the District 4 one who swam. Annie Something. Annie was very pretty, she remembered. Her stylists must have loved Pretty Annie.

Lovey Annie. Lovely, loony Annie.

Percival nodded and nodded and nodded. "Such beauty, it's a sha-"

The statement was cut short by the abrupt entrance of a tall, thin woman who Johanna immediately recognised as her primary stylist. Celesto had been District 7's female stylist going on ten years, which directly coincided with their last victory, Johanna discerned with a lingering mix of dread and discomfort.

"Leave us, leave us!" The woman was all waving arms and metal bangles, wearing a dark green sash that would be appealing if not for the fact that it was more revealing than Johann was strictly comfortable with. "Leave us! I'll see you on the show floor!"

Kisses were exchanged between the four of them as the three junior stylists all filed out with waves and good luck's. Before Johanna could even mutter a reply, she was alone with Celesto and her shimmering silver bands.

Johanna is made to turn, to raise her arms, to spread them out on either side while Celesto circled her and made comments about weight, bulk and posture. In a few short minutes, she's determined that Johanna looks like a boy ― if she stopped slouching she'd look far more effeminate, with a wonderful profile but oh, _do stop frowning_.

_A smile goes a long way! And are those tears? Crying? Hush now, there is nothing to be upset about!_

The breadth of her shoulders will make the costume come out one-sided and Johanna was smaller than what Calesto was expecting. Last-minute preparations would have to be made.

"I have to admit I'm horribly jealous of Casbus," she sighed after a while, moving between sketchbooks with wide-angled swashes of green and not much else. "That Linden is such a handsome boy, with the right body- oh you, I can deal with, I suppose. At least you've got some weight on your bones ― all wrong composition, but with a little work I can make your curves come out wherever they want to or not!"

It took a lot of effort not to flinch at the comment, and to avoid getting caught, Johanna looked to the floor instead.

"What to do what to do? I'm thinking leaves this year, our last attempt was lukewarm, but you two are good looking young people, yes? Yes. Leaves, wonderful leaves ― pretty, pretty, much like you... are," the woman let out a small laugh at the end of the statement, more one of genuine humour then scorn. "You are, my dear. We just need to find your style! You'll see."

Even in leaves? Johanna could not help but wince. It's been years, and if it's not trees than it's foliage, or in the case of that one year when they had two boys and two girls, lumberjacks. Ever since they've had Celesto they've had trees. Or parts of trees.

She remembered the kids from last year for the 70th, who wore jumpsuits with tiny wooden plates attached to the fabric. They came out looking like trees themselves, and Johanna would have found the thing appealing if the two kids hadn't come from the poorest areas of Seven and, as a result, looked like twigs as opposed to trunks.

As Celesto advanced on her with bushels of suspicious-looking foliage, Johanna wondered if this was how they felt.

.

In the end, she had a right to be suspicious.

The costumes they were put into are nothing but strategically placed loops of plant life. Johanna entered into the basement feeling exposed, but at the same time, her blood rushed through her limbs, pushing it into her heart with a high, unrelenting pressure that made the pulse her throat beat hard and her head swim.

It was nothing like she imagined it would be, somehow both for the better and the worse.

The other tributes stay close together, even the Careers. From her position stood with Linden, who looked even more on display since the foliage-covered only his waist and one shoulder, she could see a few of the others. The duo from Four were dressed in shimmering scales and long sashes of dark blue fabric. At one point, the boy from District 10 started shouting, and Johanna turned just in time to see him lunge for one of his stylists.

"Lunatic, that one," Linden muttered under his breath, making some sort of weird leg movement. His costume was probably as uncomfortable as hers was. "Kyeler or something, right? Wouldn't stop screaming. I think he had to have a Peacekeeper guard on him in remake."

"Oh," Johanna said under her breath, and he gave her a funny look. Like he was expecting an alternative response. He shifted again.

"What, you didn't hear? Lucky. Gave me a headache after ten minutes." He smiled, but it looked uncomfortable, and he glanced back toward the other tributes before returning his attention back to her, a little too intensely for her liking. "You look- uh, nice, though. All your scars are gone! You look pretty without them, almost like the other girls. They took away a scar on my knee and it- well it was fine, it didn't hurt nothin', ah. In fact, nothing hurt at all-"

Johanna caught her district partner making an odd arm gesture, and before she could stop herself, her eyes tracked the movement to its source. She blanched when she realised what it is he was doing.

"What are you doing?!" She hissed, eyes wide. "Not here!"

"My skin is burning up!" He gasped as he pushed one of his hands down under his loops of greenery, on his hip. Johanna had the suspicion that is not what he is trying to itch, however. "What did she use for this?"

"Stop touchi-"

"I think it's poisonous," Linden shifted uncomfortably, but blessedly removed his arms and kept them stiffly at his sides, though he was still performing the weird, dancing foot movements, almost as if he was trying to avoid rubbing his thighs together.

Sure enough, none of their stylists or the mentors were in sight, either. Johanna inhaled sharply. Snow save them, she pleaded. She was going to kill her district partner before they even hit the parade.

Linden clenched his teeth. "Is it poisonous?"

"How wo-"

"You're from the Eastern end, right?" He looked her straight in the eyes, and he'd almost look nonchalant if not for the wild look of panic reflecting in his irises. "You know trees and shit, you work in the logging camps."

That was true enough, and while Johanna did not like his tone, she also hated the fact that he was the only tribute shifting around while everyone else was standing still and ready, even the nervous ones.

She set her teeth and looked at the greenery near his hip. It was not hard to identify; ever since she was old and big enough to climb trees, to run off into the woods alone, she had known. Her father had sat her down with a book when she was perhaps three or so, said_ look at these, these will make your skin hurt, these will make you sick if you eat them_. Her earliest memories are of him taking her out for lessons like these.

Bringing up that memory and applying it to her current situation gave her mixed feelings at best, but Johanna determined the nature of the red stems and leaf shape with begrudging efficiency.

"Sumac," she snapped, and is just about to inform the idiot that he'll have to wait and not to scratch when someone whistled from across the threshold.

It was the boy from District 1, dressed in shimmering fabrics studded with finery. It made him look like royalty. "Little Seven gettin' an eyeful there!" He shouted, "You should come over here! The view is larger!"

His point was punctuated with a suggestive hip gesture. Johanna almost immediately turned away from it, her scowl digging into the floor. The front end of the procession erupted into laughter.

Linden laughed along with them, as if to save face, but it's edged with something desirous she did not like.

It set the tone for the whole parade, at any rate. The rest of it is a blur, spent in a confusing state of uncertainty, fury and discomfort. Mostly the fury, the deep insidious feeling that made the whole thing feel ludicrous, drowned out only by the surrounding noise. The crowd was deafening. Johanna did not look up to clarify, but she felt the lens on her for a small, creeping period, as if they were giving her the mere courtesy of airtime.

Linden waved beside her, looking stiff but otherwise cheery, putting on a good show.

When the President started talking, Johanna finally looked up ― there were rules, after all, and while she was angry she was not stupid. And then there was that niggling element of sheer curiosity. To see the man that has ruled the country longer than she's been alive, in the flesh.

She is not sure what she expected; the man himself a blur, an unsure silver and grey shape surrounded by ornamental stone arches, banners and the slight snippet of equally unsure blank faces in Panem official greys and reds. The President talks, in his standard Capitol drawl, as he always does, about honour and sacrifice and the Good of the Games. The crowd screams in response.

Johanna found herself at the Tribute Centre's doors before she knew it, a _Happy Hunger Games_ ringing in her ears, a chorus of _May the Odds_ pounding inside her skull and the vague blurry shape of the President itching behind her eyes.

.

"Sumac!" Dara snarled when they were both freed from their chariots, grabbing Linden's arm and firmly removing it away from his private area, which he had been shielding the whole way back, as if to make a move to scratch but not fully committing. A good thing, because Johanna might have slapped him off of the chariot if he had so much as moved an inch to do so, weakling plan be damned. "I thought they _knew_-"

Blight seemingly materialised out of nowhere, looking strained as Linden started to dispense of his outfit, practically in the nude before he could even get into the elevator. Her mentor stood between them as if to protect Johanna's mental state along with the modesty of her district partner, who had nothing but Dara's jacket to keep him covered.

The doors had barely opened when Dara dragged Linden back to his room, peppering a series of orders for the shower with proficiency, seething.

Blight, once they have been surpassed by the two other rushing men and were alone save for the Avoxes, turned to Johanna.

"No itching?" She shook her head at his question, and he sighed. "Good. Get it off. Should have some clothing in there your size. Take a shower and I'll come and have a talk with you before dinner, okay?"

Her rooms, at least, were far more luxurious than the ones she was issued on the train. Wood-panelled walls with deep, dark rugs, shiny floors that must have come from Seven, given the consistency ― Hickory, colour-washed and treated with some sort of finish, but still real, not the faux plastic stuff that was mass-produced and used at home. Johanna spent most of her time scrubbing off dark highlights and freeing her hair of whatever abomination Roman treated it with.

The plant-costume goes sailing off into the sink, along with all her accessories, left to fester.

At first, the stress on her skin was impossible to ignore; she could discern no markings from the red-stemmed leaves, but the treatments from remake had taken their toll. Her skin was healing, yes, but it felt abraded, like she'd skinned her knees again when she was a kid, but everywhere, and without the blood. Johanna spent a few minutes investigating the shower, and figured out she could not only change the pressure of the water but there was an assortment of herbal healing balm options. They came in a variety of smells and types.

When she'd finished, Johanna came out of it... better. Not her one-hundred-percent, but better. Making a mental note to remember the name of that particular concoction for later, Johanna went to get dressed, wrapping herself up in towels and avoiding the suspicious-looking mat with yellow feet marks.

The closet is programmable and much to her surprise contained clothing that was functional and appealing, unlike the ghoulish fashions she had seen over the past day. One shirt out of the thousands available for her choice took her fancy, some weird flappy number that came in orange, white or black and she picked the latter, with a set of cropped soft trousers of a similar shade. Her hair, she left wet. It would dry quickly enough.

With nothing else to do, Johanna crossed the room to investigate the window.

Beyond the horizon, the moon shone against the glittering cityscape. Millions of lights caused the dense mass of skyscrapers shimmer in the far distance and Johanna took it in with quiet interest. Despite what she thought of the place, she had also never seen anything like it. The closest urban zone to her was five dozen or so buildings surrounding the main factory; the town in her area of Seven was larger, she supposed, but she rarely saw it and the main city square she'd seen but the once and that was a day ago.

The Tribute Center was one of the tallest buildings in the Capitol and it stood separate amongst official parks and ceremonial roads. People were needle points and cars were blood cells flowing through the veins of city blocks. Despite the time, the hustle and bustle never came to a halt. She couldn't hear, but she imaged that they were celebrating.

Celebrating her impending death, she reminded herself with a snarl and turned away.

Blight gave her an odd look when he arrived, to which she merely raised an eyebrow.

"What?" She grumbled, annoyed at Blight and the lunatics beyond her bedroom window. "You asked me to get comfortable."

"I did." Came his neutral reply, shrug and all. He crossed the room and picked up one of her pillows, a peerless white and overly stuffed thing. "Here," he said, adjusting it so it was facing her. "Hit it."

"What?" Johanna was struck blank.

"I said hit it, girl."

She did, annoyed and confused, and he gave her a look of disbelief.

"You call that hitting something?" Blight demanded, and so she hit it harder, properly. She imagined that it was Saffrin Niklas back home in Seven, who once thought it would be funny to hook her brother Ben, who was afraid of heights, upon a branch a good ten feet off of the floor. Wasn't so funny for her afterwards. Johanna was twelve and nearly double the other girl's weight.

Only this time around there was no Saffrin, no pretty little nose, but the surprisingly solid impact of cotton and memory foam.

And Johanna immediately understood what it was for.

By the time she had stopped punching, the pillow was thoroughly misshapen and she was breathing hard. Blight dumped it back onto the mattress unceremoniously.

"Here, both hands behind your head- there, now deep breaths, concentrate on getting oxygen. Good girl." He nodded in approval as Johanna breathed, skin feeling hot but not otherwise sweaty, not yet. "Good, in here, only in here, and only when I'm around to manage it. We'll be going over your strategy aft-.. after dinner, but I wanted to let you know that you've been doing a decent job so far. Stylists said you were quiet and teary, and- mn, what I've- seen from the commentary suggests much of the same. They're dismissing you."

It wasn't hard, Johanna thought. Between her attempts to not broadcast her disdain for every single second of this perverse display and what little modesty she had left her wanting to curl up and sink into the floor. Or, better yet, launch herself at the passing smiling faces until they stopped. Stopped smiling and stopped breathing.

She couldn't imagine the look on her mother's face, her reaction to Johanna's outfit... Part of Johanna took immeasurable glee in it, but it's a short-lived feeling.

She was assuming that her mother had found the strength to watch at all; she might have been curled up in bed, worry-stricken, for all Johanna knew. It almost made her feel guilty. She knew her father would watch; he'd sit in the main room in his chair with his glass of ration ticket issued barley alcohol, maybe even in the dark, and watch. Her brothers, maybe, too. Elden and Oliver might if they could convince their father, Ben certainly not, not if their mother had any say, he was far too young.

Then she imagined Adamus watching that whole performance and the guilt is replaced with contempt. Johanna wondered what would happen if she flung herself from the balcony roof.

"Hey," Blight snapped and Johanna threw her head up to meet his gaze in shock. "Remember; get that out, you need to be on your game."

He waited for a few seconds, waited for Johanna to shove everything back, every memory and lingering feeling until it was them, the room with its big long window and the cold air coming from the ceiling, and the thoroughly abused pillow. When she finally scowled back at him, he deflated.

"All finished?" Blight asked, mock-sweet.

"For now," Johanna huffed. She brought her arms down heavily, hands slapping at her sides.

Her mentor shut his eyes. "Wait until the Games. Wait until it's time. As for... the rest, the whole thinking thing? Not now. I'll let you know when you've got time to mourn."

Johanna was just about to demand what in the name of Panem _that_ was supposed to mean when Tacitus called them for dinner.

With some mounting frustration, following her mentor all obedient-like out the door into the main threshold, she suspected that she wouldn't have got a worthwhile explanation anyway.


	4. axe

**axe.**

Johanna's training uniform was a flat uninspired grey, and it met her on an equally uninspiring grey morning. It was fitting, if anything, matching her mood quid pro quo.

By the time she graced her mentor with her presence, the clouds outside were dark and spitting. She found Blight sat at the table, papers strewn around in an organised sense of chaos and a bowl of something hot at his elbow. He did not look up when he heard her sit down, but instead frowned down at a page he had pinned with a thumb and index finger.

"Linden and Dara have headed on down. You've got ten minutes at the very most." Voice rough and edged with sleep, Blight flipped the page over. All Johanna could discern was a column of numbers and graphs with multicoloured lines.

Breakfast back in Seven was solid, boring and for roughly three-quarters of the population, designed to be on the go. Some of Johanna's earliest memories were of eating densely packed baked oatmeal, still hot to the touch, the kind that her father packed away with him every morning before he got on the freight train and Johanna only ate because she was an early riser and her mother liked to sleep in for a few extra hours before making proper breakfast. When she started working, she took it with her, too.

Even here in the Capitol, the familiar starchy grains were present, only the fair was fuller, with cream, brown sugar and tiny fruits of various colour. The same principle, she noticed, just finer. Johanna took a bowl and sat back near her mentor.

"So," she muttered, stabbing at the creamy brown oats. "What's the plan, oh wise mentor mine?"

Blight grunted. "Here's the plan: do nothing."

Even with her muted enthusiasm, Johanna could not quite hold back the irritation. She mustn't have been able to pull it back in time, because Blight looked up and squinted back at her.

"Oh, you can do things. Just nothing noteworthy. They change it every year, but s'usually consistent," her mentor explained as she methodically ate her breakfast and tried to concentrate on appearing less annoyed than she felt. "Weapons stations, places to train your body ― weights, endurance circuits. Climbing walls. Wilderness stations. Stay on activities safe for Seven. You know what those are?"

Johanna, who's previous understanding of the three day training period consisted largely of ignoring that the Hunger Games existed at all, had to make an educated guess. She glanced across the room, out the window, and narrowed her eyes at an advertisement selling Fat-Free Ice. Huh.

"Hatchets and axes?"

Blight very nearly smiled. "Not quite. Not wrong, either, but not right now."

At any rate, it was wilderness stations and group activities for her. According to Blight, they were boring and easily ignored, normal staples for Seven and avoided by the tributes from One, Two and Four because they either did not care or were familiar enough with the content to feign disinterest. There were always exceptions ― to promote the image of career supremacy, they may give it a once over, but Johanna would be ignored if she played her cards right.

"Remember what I said about Hallmark years?" Johanna had grunted in affirmance at her mentor. Blessedly, that is all that Blight required. "Them Gamemakers are gonna wanna know the spread. They plan ahead according to what they see. We want you going in underestimated."

"Gee, thanks for the encouragement." Johanna took a slice of toast off his plate as she stood up.

Blight snorted and waved her off. Flanked by Peacekeepers, Johanna, armed with warm buttered bread and a mission to simply act miserable, made it down to the training centre just as Atala, the head training instructor, began her welcome speech.

.

The underground gymnasium that served as their training centre was more than what Johanna was expecting. Surrounded by floor to ceiling climbing nets and rows of sharp, shiny weapons, as the rest of the Tributes filtered off, Johanna bit her lip and tried to think.

"So," Linden's uniform was similar but distinct enough to set them apart. "What are you going to do?"

Johanna did not turn around, but she did glance over her shoulder. His hair was washed, he's still-shaven and Johanna would find him begrudgingly attractive if she didn't already hate him. "I'm not sure."

"Could climb some," Linden suggested, shrugging. "You're supposed to be good at that, right?"

He was not wrong, but Johanna avoided the netting on principle alone and instead drifted over to a survival station that involved finding edible plants within grassy and wooded terrains. The trainer was a younger woman with brown skin and a wide smile, and she happily assisted Johanna in the more advanced sections of the station as the other Tributes immersed themselves in the more violent of lessons.

The One boy is very overly-familiar with a spear as long as he is, and Johanna wondered if he's overcompensating for something when he threw it over ten yards away, where it embedded itself into the chest of a foam target dummy. He smiled at the District 8 boy, who was holding a knife uncertainly and hunched away.

Orville, she decided, was a cocky fucker. She could not stare for too long, lest it becomes obvious, but as she was looking at the traps, she determined that he was probably long-ranged. He had a good arm. He wanted the Gamemakers to know it, too.

Flint, the Two boy, spent maybe ten minutes with a sword before he concentrated on weights. All the while, his district partner talked to One girl cheerily about skewering Ten Boy's intestines with a wicked stare. Flint, at least, seemed uninterested in posturing.

The Four pair, the cousins, stick by one another and had clearly come as a matched set ― they fought with twin weapons, worked fluidly together, but avoided anything weighty. Either they had a secret skill in deadlifting that they didn't want anyone to know about, or Johanna suspected they were built for agility, not brute strength.

Johanna began thinking about ways to defeat them all. She had seen enough of the games to know that the standard Career alliances went in strong and broke after the first death or so, or if the play was weaker than normal, when the number of targets thinned and the level of competition rose. Sometimes additional tributes got roped in if they were good enough. She made note of Flint and the Four Cousins, and tried to figure out how to make a fishing knot, wondering about how to overpower a boy twice her weight. Maybe she could attack them when they are sleeping? Or drop on them unexpectedly from the trees?

One thing she did know ― Johanna would come at them when they were least expecting it. All that putting on airs would be for nought when they died for it.

After dinner, she was approached. Linden had been spending time with Four girl, too much time, talking away while Dylan worked on his archery, leaving Johanna alone.

As she was carefully making mental notes, District 5's boy wandered up to her.

She was making a show of working up the courage to climb the netting, just as they were about to all called together to learn how to use basic hand-to-hand ― a lesson she was not looking forward to. Johanna knew how to throw a punch and while she likely had nothing on the Careers, she wondered if that alone was too much. What sort of weakling bribed the local drunk to teach them how to swing a right hook?

Blight had instructed her stylists to dress her in a long-sleeved, flowing top, but she wasn't certain it would hide her arms. The stylists were thick-headed enough to overlook Johanna's physique because she was a girl and supposed to be pretty; it was disappointing as opposed to noteworthy, but the trainers here would probably take notice. They had to.

"You're Johanna, right?" The boy asked, stopping beside her. He's blonde-haired and dark-eyed, not unhandsome but plain-looking, and Johanna very nearly saw Adamus in his overly normal features before she bit back the overfamiliarity.

_Concentrate_! She admonished herself. Fucking _brainless_. Focus. Remember where you are, what you need to do.

Remember what you know. District 5, Male. Someone-Beginning-With-T. Seventeen. Johanna had seen him making the rounds early this morning, talking to the outlier tributes.

What that meant, exactly, she did not know.

"I'm Tomas." He said after and put a hand out, to shake, in the way of greeting.

"I remember." Johanna lied, voice quiet. She looked at his outstretched hand but did not take it. Instead, she folded her arms over her stomach. "Hi."

He looked up at the netting. "You gonna climb that?"

Johanna flicked a glance at the trainer overseeing hand-to-hand. She shrugged. "I guess not now."

"Guess not all Sevens do that tree climbing thing, huh?" He chuckled, good-naturedly. "At least, I don't think your district partner does. He's all legs."

Tomas looked at her a little more closely and Johanna was used to that ― to the glances and stares from the blokes at work, so much so that she nearly stood up taller and squared her shoulders, but then she remembered where she was, who she was, and what she needed to do. She hunched in a little instead.

"Say, what part of Seven did you say you were from?" He asked, and Johanna frowned.

Johanna had never mentioned anything about Seven, not to him nor to any other tribute. In fact, the only thing about Seven she had talked about is what she did at work, and that was to Blight. Linden guessed, she supposed, likely because of her accent, but how would a non-Seven, a _Five_, know the difference?

"Oh, the East," Johanna muttered, knowing that it wouldn't give anything away.

Much like in the big Districts, the Capitol had pressed for the gradual phasing out of old-world regional names and it had taken effect during her Grandfather's time. Her own specific town, attached to six or so logging camps and one major douglas fir plantation, two sawmills and a factory that specialised in sheathing plywood had the moniker of Douglaswood, but to the Capitol, it was merely Plantation-11.

"So you're a logger, then?" Tomas asked, and it's his turn to frown when Johanna shook her head. Technically, it was not a lie. But when she expected him to knock it off, to walk away and find a different tribute to bother, he laughed. "Well, there goes my chance to get any tips on tree climbing then. All Two knows how to do is climb rocks, and both of the Elevens work on crop farms, not with trees."

Such is a shocking amount of information to give away, Johanna thought. Granted, she wasn't exactly a pro when it came to Hunger Games info; some kids obsessed over finding out little details, the _secrets_, convinced they were about to be reaped (or were crazy enough to consider volunteering ― there was always one or two), and so she did not know the system as it were, but, still. It felt odd. Out of place.

Everyone here seemed to be acting out their own individual play. Was this Five Boy's? To make friends with the weaklings so he could, what? Kill them off? Make _friends_?

What are you planning? She thought as she watched the boy in the corner of her eye, half-listening to his pointless chatter about how there was effectively nothing he could do in a powerplant to prepare for the games aside from climbing ladders. She wondered what the point was, if making friends was his goal. Why make friends when there is a chance that you could end up skewering them dead in the coming days?

It mattered little. Their conversation ended before Tomas could say anything more when the trainer called them over to their mandatory sparring lesson.

.

The first day, she decided, went to relative plan. Johanna learned how to make some better snares, to identify some basic plants not from her regional area of Seven and how to potentially get out of a chokehold.

She also learned a lot about her fellow tributes.

Which was good, because Tacitus and Dara grilled them both endlessly throughout dinner about their experiences. What they did, who they saw, who saw them, what the other tributes did, who they talked to. Johanna was not entirely sure if she should keep most of her observations secret from Linden and Dara ― they were district partners, yes, but also competition.

In the end, she decided to just stay as quiet as possible. Johanna did not have permission to drop the meek little weakling act even in Seven's company, and while she smarted at the idea of needing permission to act in any way she pleased, sensibility won out. This wasn't just a power trip of Blight's, she reminded herself. It was life and death.

Though she could certainly hold a grudge and hate him for it.

Dinner was a fairly stomachable roast goose with something called sauerkraut, honey glazed carrots and parsnips and bread filled with seeds, cheese or honey. Johanna noticed that her servings were less, this time. She was not sure how to feel about it, but settled on annoyance, as she had elected to for everything involving her mentor's apparently unlimited rights to meddling in her life.

Linden was apparently not under the same restrictions, or maybe he just doesn't care. He asked around a goose leg he was holding between two fingers, "Do the Careers normally have such open talents?"

Dara glanced at him, then Johanna, and then at Blight ― whose only contribution to the conversation thus far had been to ask about the stations available and what kind of groundcover they appeared to emulate, and what stations Johanna had chosen to participate in. The elder mentor sighed.

"Usually," he replied. "It wouldn't be the first time we've heard about it. Officially, such talk is nonsense, but I've been in the business since I was fifteen years old and I've seen enough of how One and Two in particular function to know that there's usually an angle."

"What kind of angle?" Johanna surprised herself by asking. For a moment, her mouse-like facade collapsed under the sharp intensity of her thoughts. Both of Dara's eyebrows raised up, and she ducked her head automatically.

Blight cleared his throat and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "What they show, they want you to know. The Gamemakers, the other Careers, the other tri-...butes." He sighed, very quietly. "Tributes. Usually, it's all about threatening the playing field and winning over support from the officials. Sometimes they wait for their private session, sometimes not. It usually depends on the atmo'."

"The atmo?" Linden frowned, Dara grunted.

"Atmosphere. Viewer atmosphere, sponsor atmosphere, government atmosphere. It's all mentor lingo, and I don't expect you to understand in full, but it's the Captiol's job to fit the narrative to what the people want." And by people, Johanna thought, he meant Capitol people. The only ones that matter. "And after last year, they'll be wanting action after a pretty disappointing win. Two has a creditable Games team, but any district worth their lot will try to figure out just what to gun for, for your sake. If the tributes are displaying something special, then it's because they want you to notice, because their mentors told them too."

"Just like the things that you're _not_ noticing," Blight added, with a surprising amount of gravity. He looked up at Johanna, his serious eyes looking into her serious eyes. "But Careers long have a problem with arrogance. They avoid the things they are not good at to make them look good, and those who know what to look for..."

He stabbed a parsnip with his meat knife.

"What they don't show, kills 'em."

Johanna decided then and there; tomorrow, she was going to work at some of the things she was less good at. She wondered what Blight's strategy was, if Dara made him play to his strengths at all. Then she wondered if thirty-eight years was enough time for Dara to come up with one himself when he was a tribute. If it even mattered.

Did it? After all, Johanna is supposed to go in supposedly undetected. The whole thing seemed arbitrary and extreme considering how in all technicality, it's just twenty-four kids killing one another at the end of the day.

And at that thought, the food on her plate was suddenly very unappetising. Johanna wiped her mouth, pushed her plate away and stood up without asking to be excused.

Tacitus tutted and said something about manners, but Dara hushed him. Johanna was three days away from her likely demise; she'd spent seventeen years asking to be excused from the dinner table at home and she never going to do it again, as far as she was concerned. She flounced off to her quarters and ripped her uniform off.

She left all of it in a pile near the door. She took a shower. She wrapped herself up in a bathrobe, sat on the bed, and commanded the window to show the image of her end of Seven.

It's too idyllic ― there's no stringent organised plantation, ten-by-ten feet for a six-point-four inch average diameter like she is used to. It's all wilds, places Johanna used to run off to and spend her free time before she started working. The only way Johanna will ever see anything like this again, assuming her arena isn't woodland and then, her kind of woodland, is to win and go herself as a Victor.

So she'd just have to win then, wouldn't she?

The thought settled in her chest, though not in an unpleasant way. It was a steady weight. It felt like conviction.

Someone knocked on her door. It was followed by a pause. Johanna snapped out of it, shouted _What!_ and the door opened almost instantly.

Her mentor walked in carrying a black soft-canvas bag that was longer than her forearms. Johanna huffed in annoyance.

"Oh, it's you."

"'m afraid you'll have to get used to it. I'll be around a lot." Blight replied as he shut the door behind him.

She turned back to the window. "I want to see this place when I get out."

Johanna is not sure if it is a demand or a plea. Or a plea framed as a demand. Either way, Blight stopped in his tracks. Johanna did not look at him to gauge his reaction, but when he spoke, his voice was level. "Well, that is very good to hear."

He sat next to her on the bed and examined the image, each palm braced over each knee.

"Probably up near the Kianuko if you submitted an image from somewhere close to you," he noted, blandly. "Unless it's Mount Broadwood or the area near it, but that's beyond the District line." Blight inhaled and then turned his head to look at her. "Wanna tell me what ya' noticed today?"

"Linden is getting on with the Four girl," Johanna said immediately and Blight nodded.

"Figured. We had Odair up in the apartment at dinner."

"For what?" Johanna had heard about Finnick Odair, and who hadn't? The beautiful deadly boy with the trident and the nets. He'd won the 65th after Cashmere and Gloss from District 1 and the trend of gorgeous victors only really ended on the 67th with Augustus Braun. All four of them were Capitol sensations. Johanna had seen much of him on TV when she couldn't get away from it, especially since Annie Cresta. He was the darling of the Capitol.

"Customary meet and greet," Blight deflected, but then seemed to think better of it because he laced his fingers together. "It's normal for mentors to get together when we're not with our tributes, both for business and pleasure. I don't mind Finnick, he saw the spread and opened up potential agreements, while also extending an invitation to a poker game. S'normal for us." He sighed. "I imagine he'll be back tomorrow."

"But not for an alliance with me," she could not help it, Johanna sounded and felt bitter.

Blight shrugged. "If we play it right, his tribute will be paying for the underestimation later."

Johanna allowed her self to show her surprise, much like Dara did, but without the monster eyebrows. Hers, thanks to genetics and her godforsaken stylists, were much nicer than that now. "That's not a nice thing to say for someone _who doesn't mind_ Finnick."

He raised an eyebrow right back at her. "That's standard mentor protocol for you, kiddo. I'll backstab every one of my compatriots if it means I get you out alive, and the same goes for them in reverse. We wipe clean the scoreboard of disloyalty every time we go 'n get two new kids. Have to, or we'd all hate one another."

"How noble of you," Johanna hissed, snide and Blight looked back to the image, as if drawn to it. Perhaps he missed home as much as she did.

"Tell me what else you noticed."

Johanna did. She told him about the Fours and the Twos, the Ones and their overly-aggressive posturing. She told him about Five and his talks with the outlier tributes, which piqued Blight's interest, for he pressed for more information. She told him about the mad boy who had to have a Peacekeeper armed with a tranquilliser shadowing him, lest he attacked the other tributes and the assistants. She told him about the quiet kids and the slightly older ones, about the girl who shakes all the time and was probably on drugs before being reaped, about the girl from Six who nearly defeated the trainer with a polearm.

In the end, Blight nodded and told her good work. He slapped her on the shoulder and stood.

"Well, guess we better start preparing now we know the field a 'lil better," he said, and moved to the centre of the room. "Do you know how to do a push-up?"

"Why would I need to know _that_?" Johanna turned to him with a look of utter shock. Again, she wondered why it was her who had to get saddled with the crazy damaged one.

Or maybe all Victors were just insane. It'd make sense.

Blight got down into a push-up position and performed a routine of five effortless ones, before standing.

"Like that. I don't want you showcasing your strength ― on a female tribute, that's notable outside of scheduled sessions. Instead, I want you to work on your strength endurance in here. Do as many as you can tonight and then do the same tomorrow, before dinner too. That's not the only thing-"

He gestured to the bag, opened it and Johanna actually turned her body around properly when he held out a proper, no fooling _axe_.

It's not the kind that they use at work, forest axes that had embedded tracking chips and had to be handed back to Peacekeepers every shift. This one is sleek and metallic and is used in the arena for districts like theirs. This one had the same orange-grey-black design from Blight's game. She'd seen the replicas.

"It's not real," he warned. "And under no cir-... no circumstances, must you bring it out into the apartment. It's not sharp but it will hurt people if you hit 'em an I can tell you now, the Capitol knows it too. I want you to do what I tell you, and then put it under your bed, understand?"

Johanna blinked. "Do what with it?"

"It's the same weight as my old one. Not the same weapon, mind you, because that thing was... unusable afterwards... but practically the same design, just no edge." To punctuate his point, he dragged the palm of his hand over the axe blade. "There are only a few ways you can go about swinging an axe to hit someone, I want you to practice doing just that, away from prying eyes."

Sure enough, Blight showed her how to swing it properly. Overhead, underarm, a left-hand swing inward. He gestured for her to take it and Johanna stood there, holding this well-worn former-tool of death by proxy, and decided she liked the weight of it.

"Twenty-five swings each in the evening each, fifty in the morning if you can do it ― though I figure you can. Only in here. If you need help, leave it under the bed and come get me."

"This can't be normal mentor procedure," Johanna looked up at him through narrowed eyes, and he shrugged. "The fuck are you on?"

"Aint no other mentor like me, kiddo." Blight smirked. "'Sides, I figure it isn't too bad so long as we don't make a fuss now, is it? It's hardly a fucking Career academy."

"No," Johanna pantomimed swinging the axe overhead. She imagined One Boy beneath her and scowled. "No, I guess not."


	5. pack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rating has been updated for the douchebaggery on behalf of D1M, also in preparation for the future content as well. 
> 
> Specific warnings I will place in the chapter summery, but in this instance, aside from some implied non-consensual sexual comments from D1M in the form of aggressive posturing, there is nothing to warn about aside from canon-compliant violence. And D6F, who swears like a sailor.
> 
> Reading the new HG prequel novel really got me back into the swing of things! It's good to be back.

**Pack.**

Johanna headed down to the training floor early the next morning.

Not early enough for a clear room. Some of the more serious Gamemakers were already sat down, picking at breakfast and chatting amongst themselves. They looked down when she arrived but spared her no more than a glance.

The only other people in the room were the assistants, the District 2 boy, Flint, and the District 6 girl, who Johanna hadn't spoken to and whose name she did not know.

Johanna had monikered her as _Six _for the meantime and Six had caught Johanna's attention, for it was Six who fought a trainer with a polearm yesterday and very nearly won. She also rebuffed District 5's Tomas the second he showed up to talk to her, but otherwise appeared cordial to the other tributes as far as Johanna was aware.

Six seemed unafraid and almost bored, as if the whole thing was more of an inconvenience instead of a death sentence.

Of course, Johanna wasn't looking for alliances - who in their right mind would make an alliance with Johanna, acting the way she was? - but also given the likelihood of her and Six just knifing one another if they ever cross paths in the area, it did not seem worth it.

But Johanna had always relished in a competition, friendly or otherwise. It was one of the few ways she had been able to make friends, before this, and there was something about this quietly dangerous Six that Johanna, in another world, would like to have known.

It was strange. Usually, Johanna was offended by the idea of human contact. Now suddenly she was craving normalcy. Missing the sort of stuff she'd get at home. Talking shit with Adamus, arguing with Paul. It was all pointless and very, very dull but for some reason, she was missing it.

So Johanna walked up to Six. Her hands remained in her pockets, not in the casual-way, but the hunched unsure-what-to-do-with-her-hands way, the way her younger brother, the timid one, did.

She wondered what it is she might say. Normal Johanna would have cracked a joke, or would have said something snide. This Johanna, this fake Weakling Johanna, she is sure, would not do that. She examined the taught lines of muscle lining Six's arms, the strong grip on the sword she was examining, and very immediately elected to change her mind.

"Well, you're not what I expected to see," Six turned around before Johanna could change course. "Johanna, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Johanna replied, lamely. She noticed with no small amount of displeasure that she was caught between Six and the Gamemakers. She couldn't walk away now. "You're early."

"Same could be said for yourself," Six answered back, eyebrow rising. Suspicion was an undercurrent of most of the conversations held in this room and barely even the district partners talked. Usually, it was between the tributes already in alliances, or toward the adults in the room responsible for their supervision. Some weirdos like Tomas talked a lot, but he was the notable exception.

Johanna shrugged.

"We worked on the obstacle course yesterday," in order to come up with an excuse, Johanna had to think fast. It was one of the few things she had been allowed to sort-of excel at. She was a natural improviser, and wicked quick. "Was thinking we could race."

"A race, huh?" Six went to put the sword back, realised that the slot she was going for is the wrong one, and then just left it on the floor for someone else to deal with. "How thrilling."

"I don't wanna fight with anyone," Johanna muttered. Not the truth, but something she would be expected to say.

And it's a complete untruth at that. Throughout this morning's makeshift axe drills, with every swing, Johanna had pictured herself cleaving idiots like Linden and Orville down. It was odd ― Johanna was tough and snappish but she'd never really considered herself an outright violent person. Now, the urge to dish out pain made her fingers itch. She constantly craved something sharp to hold and since she was banned from non-mandatory weapon practice, the only time she'd felt truly content was when she was holding Blight's mock-arena weapon.

Maybe keeping busy in other ways was what kept her secure, safe. Work had been good at that, back home. It kept her focused and chopping into dense, hard lumber worked wonders on one's frustrations. Running around like an idiot seemed tame in comparison, but... _maybe_...

Six mirrored Johanna's previous shrugging gesture. "Sure. Anything beats waiting for the murder models and my idiot partner. Let's go."

They do just that. The obstacle course was just wide enough for two smaller people to run it side by side and one of the trainers readily agreed to play referee, so long as it stayed cordial.

Johanna did not start off a strong, but Six wasn't exactly a super athletic specimen either. It was early and it was unlikely that the other girl slept any better than Johanna had. As she expected, Johanna was a vastly better climber, even when faking, but Six was taller and had more reach. For a moment it was not clear who might win, they overtook one another once, then twice, then again when they got to the ropes and again when it came to jumps.

In the end, Six won by a small margin. Not a terrible result, all things considered.

And it probably meant nothing in the long run. It wasn't anything that couldn't have been noticed yesterday. Johanna felt tired, not in a bad way, but pleasantly spent ― and she hadn't put herself at risk.

"Well, that woke me up." Six stretched, casual seeming and gave Johanna a nod. "Good match. You're a good climber."

"Thanks," Johanna replied. She noticed, behind the other tribute, most of the others walking in. "You're quick."

Six made a gesture that doubled as a thank you as well as a dismissal. "Eh."

_"What are you doing?!"_

Johanna had not noticed the boy from District 10. He came stomping over, his Peacekeeper babysitter trudging along at a safe distance. The tribute was an intense, pale boy shorter than Johanna with a head of tight red curls.

This was not good. Johanna glanced, once, quickly at the surrounding room and the Gamemakers. Most of them were looking in their direction.

Six heard him at the same time as Johanna and turned around, looking annoyed.

"Oh look, if it isn't my least favourite lunatic. Hello, Kyela. Good morning." She gave Johanna a narrow-eyed look. "This is Kyela. He's convinced we're gonna be allies."

"Our combined strengths would make us a valuable team in the arena!" Ten boy snarled. "And here you are, chattering about, giving away our secrets to this-..." He stared at Johanna. "Who _are_ you?"

"You know for someone who isn't a Three, you aren't half Threeish." Six noted, displeased. "Take a hint, fruitcake. I'm not joining up with you. I told you at least four times yesterday, just as I told Fiver. I don't do groups."

"-_But!_-"

"I told you. Good luck, my not-at-all-friend, but the answer is still a complete and adamant, unrelenting _no_."

"As you've said. But the evidence is clear, you know it, I know it. The others, they are not like me. They are not like you."

"Let me put it into basic terminology for you," Six leaned down to the smaller boy, hands on knees. "Fuck. Off."

Johanna would liked to have listened in, for Six's repertoire and spiel was endlessly entertaining, but the situation was unfavourable and drew too much attention her way. Acting shy, scared, she drew back a few steps until she was out of immediate range and no longer in the direct conversation. Then, she turned around completely and hid inside the wilderness station. The trainer who taught her yesterday gave her a look that is not entirely unsorry.

"You're making a mistake!" Ten-boy called at Six's turned back.

"Get off my dick!" Six snarled back.

Left to pound sand, Ten Boy stared after Six with a look of immense anger and ― surprisingly, upset, before he clenched both fists. His eyes were a wild sort of wide, more whites and dark pupils than anything else. Johanna felt unsettled.

It amplified when he tracked the room, failed to find someone, possibly Johanna, and stormed off to the nearest weapon station. Johanna herself stood there, examining Kyela and then, Six, who'd picked up a baton and was slapping a practice dummy around with no grace but evident enthusiasm.

It's a shame, Johanna decided. If this was another world, she would have wanted to be very good friends with Six.

.

Before, during an early breakfast, Blight gave her specific instructions in regards to her second day of training.

"I want you to-," The stutter made her mentor stop what he was doing and momentarily plant his hands down flat onto the table in irritation. As their so-called plan became more of a thing, Johanna had noticed that Blight's talking troubles were getting worse. Sometimes he'd stop talking altogether and stare into the middle distance for a few seconds. "Watch. I want you to watch."

"What do you think I've been doing, Blight? Admiring the architecture?" Johanna griped, spreading some dark purple jelly-stuff onto her toast. It was overly sweet for her taste but it worked well with the bread, and she wasn't much hungry.

"That's not what I meant," Blight snapped back, but then breathed in hard and shut his eyes. "The second day is import-t..." Another pause. One second, two, three. Blight exhaled. "Important. S'usually when the tributes start org-organising themselves into alliances. You need to be extra observant."

"For what specifically?" She threw back. If Blight was informing her that she needed to be more observant then he was probably right.

Blight cleared a few papers of his away and made a specific set of hand gestures that might have made sense to him, but was completely bewildering to Johanna. "First, the regular pack. Find out who will be in charge, who's the weaker link, who might break off first, die first, kill first," he said, slowly, trying not to slip. "But I need you... to keep an eye on the others." A pause. "The older, other tributes."

"Like the Tomas boy."

"District Five, Male? Yes."

"Anything else?"

"Stay away from Linden." Blight shrugged. He hadn't eaten anything yet and Johanna had the suspicion that he wouldn't do so at all today. "Usually this is where I tell my tribute to find a weapon that they'll l-.. like, but not you. Stay away unless it's mandatory. Don't even pick up a toothpick if you don't 'ave to."

Johanna set her cutlery down and stared at Blight. The man sighed.

"Careers will be, er, on the lookout. They'll've figured out who they might get in the bloodbath, it's about figuring out what they'll be up against from there. If they figure out your angle ― or assume that you have one, it could put you higher up on their kill list and you... don't want that." He gave her a rueful look. "Ten years, six tributes. Got four into the top ten and s'exactly the same, every year."

He considered her for a moment, and then seemingly relented, for he inched his chair closer and leaned up on his elbows.

"You've heard the term 'spread' when it comes to the tributes, right? Usually, it goes Juniors - that's the twelves to thirteens - and Holdovers, the weaker tributes. Career districts call 'em _Meat_," he shook his head at the term, disgusted for a quick, seamless moment before whatever training he possessed banished the expression away. "Those all tend to die in the bloodbath, because they're easy to kill and they buff a Career's statboard early, maximising their odds and making 'em look good for the sponsors ― a group, especially, that we call the _Professionals_. People who bet on the games for the data, not any sort of loyalty or love or thrill or whatever. It's also considered a bit of an... honour system. Killing clean and quickly, as painlessly as possible when it comes to juniors and allies is considered good sportsmanship."

It was too early for the lesson in context. She threw down her toast and slide the plate away.

Her mentor, much to her surprise, immediately shoved it back at her.

"Eat." He demanded and then, at her developing rejonder; "Because I said so ― now where..? Right. From there, you have what we call the Hunted, the tributes who got away from the bloodbath. The Careers will usually eek them out over a few days, for, ah- content."

Johanna gawked at him mid-bite. "What the fuck, Blight."

"Zip it, short stuff, and _eat_. Lastly, we have the older, 'better' tributes we call Outliers, the top 15s who survive. They to be more interesting. Depending on how much of a threat a Career might find 'em, they're usually only engaged for good television... or sought out mercilessly because they want you gone." He grunted. "Shouldn't be an issue for you, really. If we play this right, you'll go in underest-..timated, and by the time they realise you're not out in the bloodbath, it'll be too late."

He gave her a level stare.

"You'll be out of the way... The last of their priorities... And you can start building up your counterattack."

Its if he's talking about some completely rational and normal sport. What surprises Johanna, however, was that she did not care. Initial disgust over the blunt terminology over, she found herself being grateful for the information.

That was Seven for you, she supposed. The other districts could mutter about injustice all they want ― she had more important stuff to do. Let him be to the point, let him be cruel about it. It did not change anything, did not get anything done. It was the Capitol, after all, and Johanna knew; there would be no mercy here.

"Huh," Johanna noted and then took a massive bite out of her toast. Yet while she approved, because she was Johanna Mason and Johanna Mason was _like that_, she could not resist. She then added, with a full mouth. "Guess you ain't as thick as I thought you were. That's reassuring."

Blight grunted and went back to one of his papers. "Don't talk with your mouth full - it's impolite."

"_Ugh_."

.

It took Johanna a few hours to get the information Blight wanted. The only issue was it came at the cost of her own pride.

Since she was clearly a recruitment target for the so-called Outliers, namely Tomas, Johanna was required to remain further apart from them then she might otherwise need to be. Tomas had been spending his day in a tight-knit three-way of himself and the two District 8 tributes. Abner and Daisy each had decent physiques and were generally in good condition. They were also older. Fifteen and eighteen years old. Daisy had given Johanna a smile, but refrained from engaging her ― for now.

Aside from them, there was also the Eleven boy, Baily. He was a tall athletic looking youth who, rumour went, was a runner between the various field operations back in his district. Tomas had spoken with him and the two seemed to be friendly, but Johanna wasn't certain about any concerete allience.

Tomas had also talked to Six again, who had ignored him until he walked away.

The crazy one from Ten burned during the entire one-sided interaction as if he was about to explode.

District 10. Male. Kyela Harris. Johanna wasn't stupid enough to think that sort of crazy was harmless, but also wondered if he had just enough screws loose for the Gamemakers to kill him off in an 'accident'. The Capitol didn't like insane. Titus from District 6 was just one example.

But Kyela was smart and his rages were half-way directed and conventional. It wasn't taboo. Unless he started spouting anti-Capitol rhetoric, Johanna elected to presume that there wouldn't be a Gamemaker with their finger on the trigger and therefore started to formulate a plan to defeat him, too.

With that in mind, Johanna had elected to decide that the anti-pack was her biggest problem.

Linden quickly showed her the error of her thinking. Linden, her stupid idiot district partner, who elected to expose Johanna to the brunt of the Career pack's knife-sharp amusement in the most tactless way possible.

Johanna had been working on some of the things she was less brilliant at when she was caught out. Nothing weapons-based, as per Blight's instructions, but the less-than-stellar survival skills. Things Johanna never really needed because, despite their relative lower-to-middle class existence, access to camping equipment at work for emergencies was commonplace and the need to make fire from scratch was for the most part unnecessary.

Fires, water treatment, preparing meat safely, acquiring meat safely. If it wasn't immediately related to the threat posed by her fellow Tributes, Johanna figured she might as well brush up on it.

That is until she walked by the Careers on her way to the snare section and was immediately seized by Orville. It was enough of a friendly, inclusory embrace to not seem immediately threatening to the instructors. Nobody rushed in to pull them apart.

"Hey, little girl," Orville jeered. Surrounded by tall, strong, handsome youth with shining teeth and amused expressions, Johanna instinctively hunched inward and made to pull back ― but the One boy was strong and insistent. "Linden here," he gestured to her silent and shocked-looking district partner. "Says that you'd make a good lookout for our camp in the arena."

"I think he wants an excuse to get in her pants." Noted the Two girl with a sneer. "Prefer the local cuisine, Lin?"

Johanna was so affronted that she could not hide it. Before she could think to smother the expression, the white-hot flutter of anger travelled from her gut to her face, she grit her teeth and very nearly considered smacking Linden in the mouth. Flint and Amelia shared an amused look at her sudden shift in posture, while Dylan let out a soft, shit-stirring _oooh someone's mad_ under his breath.

"That's not it, guys c'mon." Linden laughed, but he sounded uneasy. Johanna imagined socking him straight in the throat. "But it'd make sense, y'know. To have a lookout. And Johanna's cool."

Cybele snorted. "And you sure this is nothing to do with wanting to share a tent with your district partner?"

"No!"

"Well, there's one way we can test that." Orville beamed, fake smile wide and ecstatic before Johanna could say anything or get anything - at all - in edgewise. "Linden says she'll make a good lookout, then we need to know if she can fight. What say you, little girl? Let's see how well you can fight. We'll get you a bow and you can show us how well you can shoot."

Johanna's _How about you go outside and play hide-and-go-fuck-yourself?_ resort was on her tongue and ready to be deployed, when Tomas barged in and pulled Johanna back by the other arm.

"The hell is wrong with you?" He demanded, with a suprising amount of gusto considering that all five Careers were spearing targets with murderous intent ten minutes ago. "Gotta pick on someone smaller than you to look tough? Fucking coward."

In another world, Johanna Mason once beat up three boys between the ages of twelve to thirteen who were hitting her little brother Oliver. She used to regularly defeat her age-mates, usually boys, in wrestling before they hit their growth spurts. She could delimb twelve-metre fir trees with relative ease.

Now she's a limp, sad rag getting pulled between two self-righteous dickheads.

Oh, how things change.

"Here comes a hero!" Orville let Johanna go, but fenced her in against the bulk of the group with one tidy side-step. "You know, I'm starting to think there is something special about little seven here, if two other guys are interested. What am I missing out on, boys? Care to tell?"

Johanna had enough intuition to sense the underlying threat there. She glanced up at the Gamemakers and noticed them looking back. A few of them look grim-faced.

_There are rules_, she remembered her father saying, back during the whole Titus Debacle. _That they pretend don't exist. And they don't want you to know about them. Or even think about them. But they exist._

They'll allow the whole killing thing but nothing else? Johanna considered grabbing the nearest knife and castrating District Two then and there, but with the electric-static threat of violence in the air, the risk of the Actual Rules being broken being more likely now that a third party is involved, things were quickly stomped out. Three trainers and a Peacekeeper come storming over to break them all apart before she can make good on her thoughts.

Johanna, aware that she had now stuck out in a very unwanted way, fled to the quietest part of the room she knew. The netting along the roof was supposedly there to train them in climbing, but it didn't have a proper station like the ropes course and its descent was unprotected. If one fell, they wouldn't die, but they'd have something sore afterwards.

It was dark and quiet here, and Johanna realised - upon seeing three smaller tributes up in the other corners, one behind a pillar above the snare section - that it was probably here to give the more timid somewhere to hide, out of the line of fire.

Well, it'd work for her image if nothing else. Johanna crawled over to one of the pillars and sat with her back to it, facing the back wall, and thought over her predicament for the remainder of her session.

.

Really thought. Enough for her to drop her regular unflinching asshole spiel and face Blight directly with: "I need your advice on something."

She'd been doing her axe exercises since the moment she came in. Tacitus had tried to coax her out for dinner early, to get dressed, but Johanna ignored him and instead ran through a second and then a third set of exercises instead. Her imagings of cleaving Linden and Orville had extended to Tomas, and it diversified her stress relief, made it _interesting_.

By the time Blight arrived, stood there silently for twenty minutes observing her drills in silence ― aside from one, singular instance where he corrected her form on the underside swing, Johanna's arms were aching and she'd built up a sweat.

At her statement, he could only shrug. "Sure."

Sliding the axe under the bed, Johanna sat down cross-legged against the headboard and picked at the comforter, limbs feeling heavy and pleasantly spent.

"How dangerous is an anti-Pack?" She asked.

Blight sat down on the side of the bed and sighed. "Depends on who's is asking, but it's always dangerous ― so is the Games by design. Why?"

Johanna frowned. "The boy Tomas?"

"District Five, Male. Yeah." He'd done it again. Johanna scowled and the man leaned forward to rub at the very faint, almost unnoticeable scar tissue running along his temple and scalp. "District five. Male." he repeated. "S'easier to keep your distance if you..."

A wave of the hand alludes to vague explanation and Johanna huffed. Morbid, but oh well. "Right. Well, he jumped in to 'save' me today."

"I'd heard." Blight drawled, and turned just enough to look at her. "You're worried he's painted a target on your back?"

"Because of that dickweed Linden, yeah." Johanna griped, very nearly complaining. "He tried to get me in on the Career pack."

Blight closed his eyes and breathed in, long and level. "I'll have a word with Dara ― I don't think that was part of their... er, plan."

"Fuck right it wasn't. How am I supposed take them by surprise if they're hunting me?"

Her mentor raised a hand. "The Careers will always be hunting, but you know that, so let's not freak out now. You said Five jumped in against One?"

"Yeah."

"Then as far as you are concerned, it's between Five and One. Standard rivalry story ― the hero against the villain. Let it play out for now."

Johanna shuddered at the thought. The hero? But that made her the maiden and... Gross. _Pathetic_.

But then a thought crossed her mind. "But if I'm to win, what does that make me?"

"The cunning underdog? Doesn't matter none, kid, it's twenty-four combatants trapped under a dome; you concentrate on surviving and let the poofs down the road make the story." Blight shrugged. "But I will say this ― keep the hell away from One and Linden in the meantime."

Johanna sighed and rolled her head back to thump it against the headboard. "This is dumb. I'd rather knife the bastards - all three of them - in the guts and get it over with."

He pressed the knuckles of his left hand into her knee in warning and then pointed down at the floor. "Thirty push-ups."

"The fuck for?" Johanna spat, but did stand up and cross the threshold to drop into position anyway.

"Because I said so." Blight actually sighed, but it was more out of begrudging fondness than any real annoyance. "In the meantime, about tomorrow..."


End file.
